Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 17

That Monday night, Logan and Inga met in the undercroft lobby at the bottom of the Stairwell of True Seeing. Logan had brought the shield and dagger he’d won from the Threshing dungeon. That chipped dagger would have a hard time cutting butter, but it was better than nothing. The shield had much more promise.

After a long discussion, Logan had chosen Braincap for his Level-Two Proto-Spore Culture. Now that he knew he was teaming up with another dungeon core, he needed to commit fully to the idea.

Both he and Inga stood with the library behind them, facing the Tartarucha Cells. The big dungeon doors were thrown open. The guy before them was spit out onto the floor and the doors clanged shut.

The turtle fountain had definite opinions on the subject. “I told you, Alphonse, that you don’t get a second longer. Please do keep track of your time better. Spitting you out makes me uncomfortable.”

Alphonse looked like your classic Egyptian mummy, with a gold headdress and a body wrapped in bandages. He smelled like dust, rot, and really old cinnamon. He bent his bandaged head. “Sorry, guys.” He slunk away up the Stairwell of True Seeing. His reflection showed a tall elf with the pointiest of ears wearing the leafiest of clothes.

Logan approached the fountain. “Hey, turtle guy, we’re here for our eleven o’clock slot. We good?”

The stone turtle coughed on some leftover water. “You are good, Logan and Inga. Though this is strange. Only one of you can take control of the dungeon at any one time. You know that, right?”

“Mr. Turtle,” Inga said in her crisp voice. “That is our business, if you don’t mind. We know what we’re doing.”

“Just don’t make me spit you out,” the turtle said. “I do enough of that all day long with this fountain gig.” He stopped talking to let water gush from his mouth and into the basin.

Logan and Inga pushed through the huge doors into a plain room of chiseled gray rock. A beaten, bronze pedestal, sturdy but not pretty, stood in the center of the generic dungeon room.

Logan found himself nervous again. Talking about joining his core with Inga was one thing. Actually, doing it was another story all together.

Again, Inga felt his anxiety. “It’s fine, Logan. I’ve already seen your Guardian Form Matrix. If anyone should be nervous, it should be me. I’ve learned about your Guardian Form from Inkboon’s book. You don’t know much about me. I fear what you’ll see. And what you’ll think of me.”

Logan could relate. “I won’t pry into your past, Inga. Don’t worry.”

They approached the pedestal. Logan wondered aloud, “So these are the Tartarucha Cells. But it’s a single room. I wonder how that works.”

Inga’s antennae were curled up against her head. Her wings were flat against her back. “We’ll find out soon enough, I imagine. But first to the matter at hand.” She was practically quivering. “Well,” she said after a moment, “don’t keep me in suspense. Please, let’s get this first part over with. The anticipation is positively killing me.”

Logan just hoped that he didn’t actually kill her. He had no idea how Symbiosis worked or what they would experience once joined. There was only one way to find out, though. He took a deep breath, steading himself and steeling his nerves, then released the Symbiosis spores from his gills. They glowed whitely, and Inga leaned in to breathe the dust in.

Her eyes swelled, glossy and distant. 

His Guardian Core Matrix popped up of its own accord and a messaged flashed bright and bold. 

Inga Thosa Therian has accepted Symbiotic Bonding! 

Notice: As the Infecting Agent, you alone can terminate the Symbiotic bond; in addition, you will receive 10% of all Apothos cultivated by Inga Thosa Therian from this point forward. Bonding initiating in 3… 2… 1… 

The effect was immediate. 

Inga doubled over, clenching her stomach in pain as tiny crystalline mushrooms sprouted along her shoulders, while what looked like a living crystal crown formed around her head, fungal roots digging down. 

A heartbeat later, Logan got flashes of memories that didn’t belong to him. He saw a vast library with shelves several hundred feet high. Inga, with big eyes, feathers, and a beak, flew to retrieve books and to re-shelve titles. She’d been the Grand Archivist of the Eastern Aerie Archive, and seeing the mountaintop library, in all its splendor, took Logan’s breath away. The other Okitori were perched in the center, on hanging platforms, like a collection of nerdy owl people. Inga would fly to give them their books, and everyone looked at her with such love and admiration.

A second later, he saw Inga flying through a snowstorm, on her way to a cave, set in the side of a rocky cliff, miles above the ground. A collection of tall, older owls stood on steel bars set into the rock wall. This was some kind of test for her, but then Logan felt himself shoved away.

Inga’s disembodied voice hit his brain. <That’s enough, Logan. I don’t want to remember the day of my Stringentia Strigiformes Exam. I don’t ever want to recall that. So, please, try not to invade my privacy.>

Logan had been curious, but he hadn’t wanted to see her memories. <Sorry, Inga. I’m not here for that.>

He blinked his eyes. <Did I just talk to you?>

<Yes, we can communicate in this fashion very effectively.> The moth girl was covered in a fine white powder, which made her sneeze. He saw her sneeze, and he felt it at the same time. He removed his core gem and let it float onto the pedestal. He got that lightheaded feeling again, but it was better this time, because Inga’s gem joined his to drift lazily over the pedestal.

With all his practice with the Boundless Wheel, he could sense the Apothos in both gems joining together through a thin teether. She had so much more Apothos than him!

Inga was strangely quiet. 

<Are you okay?> he asked.

Her response was immediate and somber. <I am. I think you can access my matrix. Why don’t you look it over, and I can answer any questions.>

                                                                                          <<<>>> 

Astral Moth

Astral Moth Guardians are as rare a sight as an Interplanar Eclipse. These beautiful winged creatures have a unique ability to traverse the multiverse without the aid of the interplanar BYE (Branches that Yield Everywhere) System. With enough concentrated Luminescence Apothos, Astral Moths can migrate along the solar currents, tending to the Tree of Souls wherever the need is greatest. Though their appearance may make them seem harmless, Astral Moths can harness the power of the Thousand Moons, shaping it to their will. They can also call upon the deadly insectile inhabitants of the Pteryx Hive Enclave, unleashing pincers, poison, and thousand-legged horrors against would-be invaders. 

                                                                                        <<< ۝ >>> 

Inga Thosa Therian

Guardian Core Matrix

Base Race: Astral Moth

Current Evolution: Mothmancer

Cultivator Class: Iron Trunk Cultivator; C Class, Rank 3

Primary Elemental Affinities: Vita/Luminosus

Racial Abilities: 

Flight, Astral Migration

Racial Skill: 

Breed

- Golden Centipedes

- Spike Flies

Path of Transformation: 

- Reflective Sight

- Chrysalis Swords

- Metamorphosis

Path of Propagation: 

- Insect Infection

- Lepidoteral Reflex

Path of the Moon:

- Moonlance 

- Lunar Aura

                                                                                       <<< ۝ >>>

Logan saw how her matrix was similar to his. Of course, she had more options, since she was an Iron Trunk Cultivator, and a fairly high ranked one at that. 

Inga’s body stood still, covered in the white spores. Her gem, however, was alive and active. <Is everything all right? Do you seen anything that troubles you?>

<No, I’m just impressed with how much you can do.> Logan was also stunned by how easy it was to take over the Tartarucha Cells. Back in the Under Stump dungeon, the experience had been overwhelming. He’d progressed a long way, and he had Inga’s core to keep him steady.

Inga’s voice was amused. <Yes, my countless hours of work and study has paid off. As you well know. So, let’s get to work. For now, we’ll keep it simple—a simple room and a simple trap that combines both our powers.>

Logan thought that was a great idea. Best to learn to walk before trying to run a marathon. <Let’s create a room off this one, so we can practice hallways. Why don’t you open a corridor on the west wall?>

He was met with Inga’s dorky laughter. <I can’t do much in this situation. You’re the primary core. I’m your infected thrall. My sinuses are never going to be the same.>

<Funny. And slightly troubling,> Logan sent. <Okay, were can we access the blueprints to craft a hallway?>

Inga’s gem clicked against his. Her moth form tapped his mushroom body on the head. <The Tartarucha Cells are merely simulation, so the items don’t exist in any real sense. This is perfect for us since we don’t have the Apothos the more advanced dungeon cores have. Remember how you created that little mushroom in the Under Stump? It will work similarly here, but will require far less Apothos since we are not actually engaging in Endogenous Apothos Manifestation.>

<Someone’s been paying attention in our Fiendish Fabrication class.> 

Logan had gotten good at channeling Apothos through his own meridians in his fungaloid form, and so it was easy to concentrate on the western wall and open a hallway there. The dungeon was his body now and had meridians of its own. He chose a wide, friendly corridor with vaulted ceilings, wide arches, and iron candelabras jutting from the walls at evenly spaced intervals. Professor Arketa said that an inviting wide space was good because it gave dungeoneers a false sense of security. A narrow hallway often meant a trap.

He extended his corridor out twenty feet, and then shaped a room on the other side. Doing this by himself would’ve weakened him completely. Maybe even incapacitated him. However, he was sharing resources with Inga, which made all the difference in the world.

In the room, he added a pit in the center, then threw in some flourishes for good measure: alcoves in the walls, some shelves where he could grow mushrooms, and a few ornate stone cornices. He and Inga moved their Guardian Forms into the room, but there was a sense that the moth and mushroom were just more aspects of the dungeon. They each controlled their own Guardian Forms respectively, but at this point, he and Inga were really more stone than flesh.

<The moth and the mushroom?> He thought. <That sounds like a new show on Disney Plus.>

Inga wasn’t amused. <Culturally specific references will not aid me in liking you more. I feel both ignorant and alienated.>

<Sorry.>

Inga had other suggestions. <From the reading I did on the Tartarucha Cells, you need to add an entrance, then, from there, we can choose a simulated dungeoneer. We only need one at this point, though as we advance, we can add more. From my exhaustive studies of the available practice dungeoneers, we should choose Sir Rosencrantz Brandybutter. He’s an old favorite, a Cavalier Mage from Bharoosh. We’ll keep that character class, and we’ll make him a low-ranked, B-Class raider, with good strength and good intelligence.>

<Since you’ve obviously invested a lot more time into this then I have, I’ll defer to you. Sir Rosencrantz Brandybutter it is.>

Logan quickly crafted an entrance thirty feet above with a nice big archway set into the stone and a very narrow staircase descending to their trap room. With luck, Sir Brandybutter would waste a spell on the staircase, and then die in their trap room without ever getting close to the inner sanctum. 

With a thought, Logan summoned the Cavalier Mage, who stood under the archway, in silver plate mail. He had a big backpack, a bit cartoony, a kite shield and a thin silvered rapier sheathed at his side. A thick head of salt-and-pepper hair matched an equally salted goatee. The only thing wizardly about him was the gnarled staff in his right hand. He stood there, not moving, a scowl etched into the lines of his face. Logan would trigger him once they had their trap room set.

He re-centered his consciousness in the trap room.

Regarding the trap room, Inga was positively full of ideas. <We should grow a great many mushrooms in the alcoves on either side of the corridor that leads to the inner sanctum. Then, we can hide there and pounce on the raider if he gets past our trap. I can breed golden centipedes for the pit, which you can then conceal with a fine layer of Mucal Film.>

Logan packed the alcoves on either side of the inner corridor with Opal Truffles. The Truffles littering his attic room had taken days to get large enough to harvest, but he hoped these would grow tall enough to hide them. Was it hope or wishful thinking?

Inga stood in front of the pit. She reached into the pocket of her robe. Tiny centipedes scuttled around her fingers. She dropped the insects into the pit with a flick of her dainty wrist. They immediately grew them into four-foot long monsters with dagger like mandibles and hooked, razor-sharp feet. Since between them, they had plenty of Apothos, Logan added spikes. It was a six-foot drop to the bottom, and if Brandybutter survived the spikes, he’d have to fight the giant insects.

If the simulated raider somehow avoided the pit and killed Inga’s scampering minions, then the mushroom and the moth girl would jump out to finish the job. At this point, the only thing Logan could do was harden himself into a target or spam Pollen at the raider. Inga, though, had other options. Not that Logan knew what those other options were. Chrysalis Swords seemed cool. But what was Metamorphosis? Would she devolve into a giant caterpillar? Or was this more of a Franz Kafka thing? Maybe she'd become a German-speaking Bohemian novelist.

Logan had no idea, and they were running out of time.

Inga walked back to her and surveyed the tiny mushrooms in the alcoves.

<Is that it> she asked, arching an eyebrow.

<Yeah, I thought they would grow faster.> He walked into the mushroom patch covering the floor of the alcove. His feet were hidden. Nothing else. <You know, I could try putting some Ghoul’s Snare in the stairwell.>

Inga’s eyelids flickered. <And how long will that take it? No. Perhaps Braincaps are a better option. They are your level-two spore culture, correct?>

<Yeah, but I don’t know how long those will take either.>

She sighed and shook her head..

<Sorry.> Logan winced. <But no one said this would be easy, Inga. Patience.>

She shrugged it off. <. It’s fine. It’s all fine. We’ll manage. But, we only have ten minutes left, so we must hurry. We can use my Lunar Aura instead. So long as we don’t move, we’ll be invisible. We’ll stand in the alcove on the right together.>

She hustled in and cast a shimmering silvery dome over the top of them. Logan stood awkwardly, pushed up against one of her thighs. He gripped his small shield and the dagger.

<Now, don’t move,> she sent.

Logan made sure his fungaloid form stood stock still. With only ten minutes left, it was going to be close. Most likely, the turtle would spit them out. He just hoped the raider would be dead by then.

Now it was time to see if their impromptu dungeon could hold up against a real foe. Taking a deep breath, Logan sent a thin trickle of Apothos into Brandybutter. 

The spectral dungeoneer sprang to life at once. “Jolly ho, a dungeon!” He exclaimed. “Huzzah! And I’m just the dungeoneer to destroy it by destroying the gem in the inner sanctum. Pip, pip, I daresay it is a good day to steal Apothos from the universe for my own selfish needs.” The guy talked like an Englishman who had left his manor house, his butler, and his accountant to go fox hunting.

Inga sighed. They’re laying it on a bit thick with this gentleman.

Brandybutter cast a Find Traps spell at the top of the steps leading down. “Drat, I was sure this narrow staircase would turn into a slide and drop me into a series of well-placed spikes. Well, onward we go. This dungeon won’t plunder itself.”

The Cavalier Mage reached the room and glanced around. His eyes brightened. “What do we have here, now? Opal Truffles? My, my, my. Why my Nana Beerbutt had a delicious omelet recipe which requires such mushrooms. But no! I must resist the urge to indulge in such delicacies! It is my solemn duty to solider onward and slay the dungeon core.”

Logan didn’t have breath to hold, but it looked like their trap room was working...

Right until Brandybutter stopped and frowned. “This feels too easy.” He slammed his staff on the layer of Mucal Film covering the floor, which promptly turned into a sludgy brown goo dripping from the end of his staff.

The Cavalier Mage gazed down at the centipedes that were already climbing the walls to get to him. “Egads, spikes and centipedes! Avoided the one but not the other. Perhaps a fireball can clear the way!”

He spun up a spell in the air with his staff and sent an orange orb of death spiraling down into the pit. It landed with the force of a bomb blast, the ground shaking, plumes of gray smoke rolling up along with the smell of fried bug and roasting fungus.

Inga wilted, clearly defeated.

Logan reached out to her. <Don’t worry. We’ll stop him at the last minute. I’ll be the bait. You have your Chrysalis Swords ready.>

<Very well. I shall be ready.>

Logan added several layers of hardened fungi to his skin.

With the centipedes cooked, Brandybutter eased down the sides, heading toward the hallway.

Once the raider passed the pit, Logan waddled out like a three-year-old in snowsuit two sizes too big. His normally white skin was a dark gray from the hardened layers of chitin. He raised both his shield and his dagger as high as he could, which wasn’t much, and belted out his best monster scream. He sounded about as intimidating as the Pillsbury Doughboy.

The Cavalier Mage dropped his staff and drew his sword. “Well, now, a mushroom man and a moth lady. First, I’ll handle you, my fungal friend. You are precious, and yet your cuteness will do nothing to slow the fury of my blade!”

He brought the sword down on Logan, cutting through his thickened skin and hacking off the arm holding the shield. On a backslash, Brandybutter smacked the dagger out of Logan’s hand. The raider then hewed off a leg as well.

Logan lay on the ground but still had an arm. He hooked it around the cavalier’s leg.

Inga leapt into action. Her slender arms were gone, each one replaced by razor-sharp blades made from silky white metal. From the elbows down, she could have passed for a T-1000 cosplayer, with his liquid metal sword arms. From the elbows up? Eh, not so much. She shot in like a bolt of lightning, wings fluttering madly she flew in from over the pit, flanking the raider.

“What the devil!” Brandybutter called out. He tried to step forward, but Logan wasn’t about to let go. Inga landed. She brought one sword arm screaming down, slashing at his exposed face, but he was far too quick. Faster than Logan’s eye could follow, Brandybutter had his rapier free of its scabbard, deflecting the blow with a resounding clang. Inga danced back and forth, as graceful as a ballerina, both arms flying in a flurry of precise cuts, thrusts, and slashes. But despite Logan’s grip, the Dungeoneer managed to repel every attack.

She was good—way out of Logan’s league, but surprisingly, so was Brandybutter.

If they were going to win, Logan need to pull his weight, and not just as the dead weight pinning Brandybutter in place. He might be able to reach his fallen dagger, but he didn’t have the limbs to use it, not without letting go. But he did have his new Athlete’s Foot ability and he was perfectly placed to use it. With a thought he released a gangrenous cloud of green spores, dusting the tops of the dungeoneers boots until the looked like sickly powdered donuts. Logan wasn’t sure this would even work since the man’s boots covered his tootsies. 

But after only a few seconds he got an answer. 

“Blazes all! What is that infernal itching!” Brandybutter started to fidget, trying desperately to shake Logan free. 

Inga capitalized on the opening. She feinted, then bounded back at the last second, opening up some space between them. Her left hand morphed and changed as she lifted it, palm up, fingers splayed wide. Pale blue white light coalesced in the center of her hand for the briefest moment before rocketing out. A lance of pure moon light shot toward Brandybutter’s face. The dungeoneer was so preoccupied with his itching toes that he noticed the blast half a beat too late. The light slammed into him like a laser beam, slashing skin and blinding him in an instant. Inga charged, driving the tip of her remaining sword arm through his breastplate. She flew back, pulling the Cavalier Mage with her.

Logan felt the raider’s weight shift. He let the Cavalier go. And Sir Rosencrantz Brandybutter fell face forward into the soot-covered spikes. “Curses! Foiled again!”

Inga fluttered over the pit, looking down, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Logan crawled over. He wanted to see the impaled dungeoneer.

Before he was given a gory sight to remember, both he and Inga were spit out into the undercroft lobby. Their gems were back in their bodies as they slid across the floor. Logan’s shield and dagger came clattering after them. The doors slammed shut. A second later, the doors re-opened. A severed arm and leg hurtled out, smacking Logan’s face.

“I do apologize,” the turtle fountain said. “But it’s midnight, I am tired, and so I had to close the Tartarucha Cells. Congratulations on besting the dungeoneer. I witnessed the whole exciting encounter.”

Logan fell backward onto the ground, holding his severed leg. He was breathing hard. “Inga, we did it. It was close, but we got him.” Talking felt so inconvenient now. He missed their immediate telepathic connection.

“For our first time?” Inga giggled. “We did amazing. And that was without your Braincaps and all the other various enhancements at our disposal.”

“Inga, what were your swords made out of? Also, what is Metamorphosis? Or Insect Infection? And when can we do this again?” Logan had a thousand questions and two thousand ideas to improve their dungeon.

He couldn’t stop smiling. This was a thousand times better than playing a video game. Yes, he was going to have to find medical help in the middle of the night since he still wasn’t quite skilled enough to re-attach or re-grow limbs, but that seemed like a minor detail. His stumps throbbed but not as bad as when he’d been human. All in all, it had been one of the best nights of his life. He’d made the right decision with Inga.

He just hoped that Treacle and Marko weren’t jealous. Treacle might be a bit sadder, but Marko probably wouldn’t care. Logan would insist on all of them spending more time at the library reading. With Inga around, that wouldn’t be a problem. 

  Keep Reading Here: Chapter Eighteen